A garden behind a house on a hill. In every direction, slate rooftops and far-off vistas of rolling fields and hills farther off still. The setting sun. Soft grass. And a brise-noisette.
Every 30 seconds or so, the impatient crack of the nutcracker. Every other 30 seconds or so, the delicate, milky sweetness of the hazelnut, fresh from the tree.
Night falls, lazily, but crisply. A table outside, tiny candles, a few shawls. Small but stout glasses of "pommereau" (fermented cider made in the same town, which is called Vire. I was told that "pommereau is to cider what porto is to wine." Anyone who knows of my frequentations of the eucharist table will know that that equals delicious, in my book). Raw kohl rabi and beet salad (from the basket full of farm-fresh vegetables, delivered that same afternoon). Pasta with homemade pesto. Cheese. Wine. Two adolescent boys, one francophone Flemish doctor, one francophone Belgian English teacher, one Amerloque...
Empty plates. Hot cups of tea, cold bowls of ice cream. Pictures of Vire during the war, of the bombarded shell of the house I am sitting in at that moment (I was later shown the burns and damages to the staircase, on the way to bed). Discussion about everything you can imagine, dear reader, for a very long time, even past the point of deep, stretching yawns and rubbing of eyes. An evening, a conversation: dégustées.
An attic room. A window open to the view of hills and fields stretching on for miles, chill air, and a skyfull of piercing white stars.
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